#There's a thing called OC inserts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiryoutann · 4 months ago

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

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TRIGGER WARNING: the aftermath of surviving a suicide attempt. SUICIDAL IDEATION, DEPRESSION, possible past-eating disorder. depersonalization-derealization, detailed writing of vomit.

This story is written from the perspective of a biased omniscient narrator, keep this in mind as you read and don't take everything they say as absolute truth.

Please proceed with caution and consider your personal comfort and wellbeing before continuing.

Nine months of your inception. Within your mother's womb, you were cradled in warmth, your arrival anticipated without reservations—it seemed to matter not if you were nobody, if you were just you. What mattered was your very birth, the fact of your existence. Milestone after milestone was marked—your first word, your first stumbling step—each met with joy, creating an illusion that despite still grasping the basics and balancing on two clumsy feet, you would always be loved.

Lies. They are all lies. As you grow up, you realize the world is not as it seemed, and love is not that unconditional. You have to be something, someone, in order to be loved.

Being human means wanting to be unique, but not so different that it results in being deemed "troubled." Being human means having people insist you have dreams only to be forced to bury them deep and never revisit them. Being human means standing between two contradictions that ultimately make you a hypocrite. Being human is reaching for something and nothing. Being human is always wanting to be loved, loved, and loved.

You long to be an ordinary daughter, with no talents, no remarkable qualities. Just you. With a father who would take you out for ice cream simply because he loves you, not because you got an A in class; with a mother who cooks your favorite meal simply because it brings you happiness, rather than as a means to keep you confined at home during the weekends.

But that doesn’t get you anywhere, you know. There’s no celebration in being ordinary, no celebration in breathing another day. So you turn your life into one long series of attempts to be something worth staying for, worth loving. What a pathetic woman, one might say—always harping on about love, love, love. Shallow. Cliché. But I can’t help that that’s me.

You tried many times to persuade that little girl—who persisted inside you as you grew older, blowing out candles without a cake, with hopes that were gradually pared down until only one obstinate one remained: God, please, just once, I want to be happy. She lives somewhere inside you, permanently; you can’t get rid of her even if you wanted to (there’s something absolute about humans always trying to burn away their past selves—which, you think, is to fool the world that they were born this way).

You dislike her. That girl and her curiosity to keep searching for the light. Like a trapped baby animal, her little hands clawing at your pancreas every time you neglected her dreams—the old, worn-out dreams that you had buried to the depths of your soul. Made only to be forgotten. Unfortunately, she would never understand this—still believing that the world was so benevolent to give her what she desired.

And unfortunately, you don't have the heart to tell her either.

So, here you both are—you and the little girl—dancing in a denial created by one or the other. She in her naivety, you in your rejection of her. A deadly, dissonant duet; a bleak and morbid song that gnaws at your flesh. The burden of her hopes for the future bends your back; your sternum pops as she tries to find her way out of the confines of your ribs.

You dislike her—the girl—but you endured the sting her nails left as she carved red crescents into you. You also refused to let her leave—scooping her small body from the ichor-covered floor as gently as her father had done to her. This was your distraction for her, your coaxing to keep her. So she could only see you through the lying mirror in the bathroom. So she wouldn’t see the reality of who she was growing up to become.

Maybe it's shame. Maybe it's guilt. How she dreams of softer days—with flowers and citrus stains on her dress while basking in the glow of the spotlight, but you've become a rotting fruit, sour, bitter at the end. The blood inside you clots; black ink pours from your heart. Never will you reach that house. She dreams of being the brightest star while, once again, you let her down and-

You left the stage.

Your own consciousness feels like a tidal wave, pulling you back and forth between sleep and reality. The world around you feels hazy, the edges of your vision blurring as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings.

Something wet brushed against your cheek. Confused, you tried to jerk your head back, but the movement only spread the dampness further. You can barely recognize your own voice as it came out as a pathetic whimper of pain. Forcing your burning eyes open, you blinked into consciousness. You shifted again, your brow furrowing as you felt something rising through your gut and throat.

Without warning, you find yourself retching, your body convulsing as you expel the contents of your stomach onto the bed. The acrid taste filled your mouth, and you could smell the vomit staining the sheets beneath you.

It was at that moment that all of your senses rushed back to you. You hold your throbbing head; your body feels weak, and yet, your heart is beating so very fast. Extending your hand, you try to reach the glass sitting on the nightstand and finish it in one go. You no longer care where the glass ends up. Waiting and waiting, you hope the water can do something to alleviate every single pain you're feeling.

To your dismay, it does nothing more than ease your throat of the remaining bile. Your heart is still racing, your hands are still shaking, and your stomach feels like it’s being twisted and stabbed from within. Curling up into the fetal position, disregarding the pool of vomit you're lying in. Your fists are pressing into your abdomen, trying to dull the suffering, but all you get is another of your cries.

You feel like a stinky mess. Your hair is damp, matted, sprinkled with tiny particles of foul, sour smell. For an hour, you lie there like the dead, occasionally letting out a small groan from how torn your stomach is. The nagging feeling of needing to vomit keeps crawling up your throat, but time after time, it would pass, and nothing would come up, just a release of pent-up gas.

An hour later, the pain finally gives in, dulling. You scramble out of bed, walking towards the door, using the wall as support for your wobbly limbs. Reaching the bathroom, you try as hard as you can to ignore the empty pill bottles scattered on the floor and yank the cabinet open. You pop a few activated charcoal into your mouth, hoping it will at least do something. To make the pain go away.

You sit on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the tiled wall. The coolness of the surface is a welcome sensation on your sweaty body. You are aware of the thoughts brewing in your mind. You try to avoid them and look for distractions around you—a crack in the wall, a thin spiderweb at the corner.

But you’ve never been known for being a good escape artist. One thought slips out, and you’re left crying in the bathroom. You cry for yourself—you think this is the first time you’ve ever genuinely felt sorry for yourself. Funny, to feel so guilty when you’re the one who brought this on yourself. You feel like a narcissistic, self-pitying woman who somehow always manages to paint herself as the victim.

Knowing that you don’t deserve this—everything that led you here and the way you’ve treated yourself. In the rare moments of self-compassion, the many previous versions of you come running to you. You could almost guess what they’re thinking: "You erased me just to create this wretched person you’ve become?"

A chuckle escaped you, devoid of humor, yet full of the arrogance that only humans can possess. But it was short-lived, as tears quickly filled your eyes and broken sobs wracked your body. The untamed flame crawled up and licked your throat, preventing you from speaking. In fear that if you did, you would string together another word you would regret. You guess that's what you are, a human full of nothing but regret.

From how hard your heart beats, you can follow its rhythm without putting your hand to your chest. Thump, thump, thump. You wonder if the sound of its beats is bouncing off your rib cage, broadcasting as if it were an announcement.

The owner tried to kill it, but it survived.

It's unsettling, this feeling. The awareness that you are owed an apology, and yet you are the very person who caused yourself pain. Always looking at your imperfections with a magnifying glass but never acknowledging the good you try to offer. Always yearning to be someone else when it was you who brought yourself here. Despite your disgrace, you should have tucked yourself in as gently as you would have done anyone else.

The silence of your lonely apartment holds up a mirror that has been forced upon you. It demands that you face yourself—to stop seeing what isn’t there, to accept who and how you are. Your virtues and your vices. Your virtues. Your vices.

But with your black-and-white vision, you don’t have that ability. If you're not entirely good, then you're a terrible person, and vice versa. You consider half measures as crime, as inconsistency. Since when did you developed this perspective you didn't know. Given your mother, you suspect it’s hereditary—or if not, perhaps taught at an early age. This makes you realize that you will never make up for how horrible a person you are.

You sat in the bathroom for two hours. Once you feel a little better, you try to find your footing and stagger into the kitchen. The light from the refrigerator you opened casts a parallelogram of light into the dark room. You reach for whatever leftovers are inside, scooping up the cold pasta you made the other day with your bare hands and stuffing it into your mouth. A frown forms at the unfamiliar temperature, but you keep chewing. You quickly swallow, then move on to the next unheated meal.

You don't even know what to hope. You're unsure if stuffing your belly with food will help to calm your racing heart and trembling body, just as it did in the past when you purposefully denied yourself meals.

By some miracle (or perhaps some intricate bodily mechanism that you don't understand), it worked. After two more hours of dozing off in front of the television, you’re no longer sweating, and you no longer feel like you’re going to die right then and there. But not much else had changed. The silence in your apartment lingers on, and the numbness inside you is still there, if not yawning to the point of conjuring your brain into a state of stasis.

Getting up, you make your way back into your room. The sight is almost normal, except for the stains on your pillow and bedspread. You strip the sheets off the bed and throw them into the laundry bin—to your relief, the vomit hasn't seeped into the mattress underneath. You quickly replaced them. Everything seems normal, as if you hadn’t just tried to take your own life.

You always have the same way of arranging your four pillows—the plain one in the back, the two with floral covers in the front. You spread a new blanket on your clean bed before placing a warmer one on top.

Walking to the nightstand, you gather up the used tissue balls and your empty glass. You grab basically any trash you see and carry it out of the room. Reaching the main living area, you scan the room—by the window, at your stretching area, at the brown chair at the far end of the room, at your ivory couch, in between the piles of pillows, and at the perfectly square coffee table.

You lowered your eyes to the overflowing ashtray sitting in the middle. The object looks strangely out of place in your home because you don't smoke. You don't, but someone else used to.

With caution, you approach slowly like one would a wild animal. You stood right in front of the table. In front of the ashtray. The accumulated cigarette butts sit on the ashes that have long since cooled.

You pinch the edge of the ashtray with three fingers and pour the contents into the plastic bag you carry. Tilting the ceramic, you can see how it has gone gray underneath from the embers and cigarettes that were rubbed against it. There will never be another use for it. You tossed the ashtray in with the rest of the rubbish.

Finishing your frenzied cleaning, you step into the shower and rinse yourself under the cold water. Normally, the steady rhythm of the water flowing would relax your body, and it would be a signal for your mind to wander—to give you something to fret about. But today, there was nothing—just a vast, empty expanse of plain white, awfully quiet like the aftermath of a storm.

You ran your fingers through your hair, searching for a sensation. Nothing. There was nothing. It was as if your hands couldn't even touch your head—like a phantom unable to hold anything because it was from another world and did not belong in this reality.

Though as unusual as it is, you’ve experienced similar experiences before, leaving you somewhat used to it but still not able to deal with it. So, you accept it unwillingly, watching yourself go through your routine: “You” scratched at your scalp with your nails, digging deeper. White suds from your shampoo pooling in the shower drain. “You” finish your shower, wrapping a towel around yourself, and head to the bedroom to get dressed.

“You” sat down on the yoga mat, taking a moment to look in the mirror to ensure you're in the correct position for stretching. Next to the mirror is your duffel bag, filled with your ballet necessities – which has been sitting there for days, untouched because ballet has become nothing to you.

But “she” touches it—the “you” in your body. After finishing her stretches, she stands and rummages through her bag like you always do before class and rehearsal. A meticulous doppelganger, this one. She ties your hair into a bun with the same efficiency as you; glancing in the mirror a second time to make sure everything is perfect before she shoulders the duffel bag and heads for the door.

Wait, what is she doing?

Where is she taking you?

No ballet today—and there will be no ballet in the future. So where is she heading?

A skilled copycat. She knows just which subway line to take and precisely when to get off. You watch her climb the steps you've ascended countless times before, proceeding straight ahead and then turning onto the sidewalk where the crimson-painted flower shop is located. She walks and walks, seemingly unaware that her presence at the opera house will be questioned and unwanted. You want to scream at her to stop, to spare herself and you the embarrassment of rejection, but this invisible glass wall is so thick, it smothers your voice, preventing it from reaching her.

She continued down the deformed corridor, ignoring the surprised looks from the other dancers. At the end of the hallway—right where the open door to the prima ballerina’s dressing room was—stood Henri, his expression not much different from the others as he watched her barge in and immediately sit down at the dressing table like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place.

You hear Henri say your name, but wait for her response. He shuts the door behind him for more privacy before dropping his voice to almost a mumble, “What are you doing here?”

Unbothered, the doppelganger began to arrange her powders and makeup on the vanity table. She glanced in the mirror, making eye contact with the director. “Isn't tonight's show day?” she asked, remaining calm and composed as if she belonged here.

Henri stood there, baffled, the wrinkles on each side of his mouth accentuated by a frown before he called you again. The more he said your name, the more foreign it sounded to your ears.

“We’ve talked about this—Claudine is going to be the one playing the Swan Queen for tonight’s show and the next few performances.” He said in a no-nonsense tone, not up for discussion, not up for full-on defiance.

“You” averted her eyes back to her own reflection in the mirror, then dragged her foundation-stained fingers across her face, leaving a paler shade of her natural skin tone. “Just because I failed at the first show,” she pumped another dollop of the product, “doesn’t mean I can’t redeem myself.”

At her words, Henri opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but didn't. In his silence, the doppelganger saw the obvious cracks in his “inviolable” decision—it carved a smug smile on her face.

“So, where is Claudine now?” she questioned, a rhetorical one.

“She’s…”

“Late again?” she guessed (though it sounded like she was finishing the sentence for him), and his subsequent expression confirmed that her hunch was correct. She arched a brow in a “told you so” manner. “Claudine’s always got a problem being on time, didn’t you know?”

A sharp exhale escaped Henri. He pinched the bridge of his strong nose, muttering a curse under his breath in French. “You’re on,” he said, then approached the chair where “you” were sitting. “But for God’s sake, don’t disappoint me. I have a lot at stake here, and I don’t want any more disasters from you or Claudine.”

Leaning down, he brought his head closer to hers, their gazes locked in the mirror. “Perfection itself is imperfection,” he told her.

Having stated his piece, Henri straightened his back and turned to leave the room, leaving your doppelganger alone. The woman continued her makeup; applying contour according to the White Swan makeup portion, tapping the bristles on the blush and bringing it to fill in your cheeks, and finishing with a setting spray to set everything in place. It was all your exact routine.

Even though you weren't in her body, you could tell what she was thinking as she put the white faux feathers to either side of her head. She smiled at her reflection, proud of the end result of her appearance.

You’re not sure how Henri relayed the news to Claudine, but somewhere out there, she must be grieving for the opportunity that once again slipped through her fingers. Her dream was just a reach away from her—an almost—before it was cruelly snatched away from her. If you were a better person, you would feel sorry for her. You would also find similarities between the two of you.

But you and “she” both know that there is only one person eligible to play the lead role—the story of a swan floating aimlessly can only be played by a bloated corpse of a dreamer girl.

Nothing happened. And you are the Swan Queen.

Around twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. “White Swan is up in ten!” a voice called out from the other side. The doppelganger turned her gaze in the mirror, examining her reflection one final time. Satisfied, she rose from the vanity chair and left the room to the backstage.

You watched as the swan flocks exited the stage in a graceful, synchronized glide. And then, without hesitation, “you” jumped into the spotlight, and the audience burst into applause at the entrance of the White Swan. Odette, with her arms spread wide like wings, opened her chest and pulled her spine back. She stood on pointe; her long legs took step after step, all in time with the harmonious plucking of the string instruments.

The pale light of the moon cast a silvery hue upon the solitary lake, a place that she and her flock of “swans” had been forced to call home for so long. During the day, they gather under the sheltering shade of the weeping willow tree that stands at the end of the lake. But when evening falls and the shadows grow long, they try to adapt to the unfamiliarity of the soft earth and the limbs of the girl they once were.

It was supposed to be yet another night of her cursed existence. So, when a man revealed himself from the darkness of the shadows and approached her, Odette couldn't help but feel terrified and flee, extending her arms as if she was about to take flight.

Who are you, stranger? She wandered in her thoughts. Was it coincidence that brought you here tonight, or is there another intent behind your appearance? Do you intend to harm me, just like the others who have come before you?

The crossbow in his hand should have spoken volumes (in another life, it would have been a worn and faded all-black leather jacket), should have been enough for her to stop wondering and run. To spare herself from more agony, to spare herself from piling on another curse she would have to endure. She ran—but not too far, still within his reach if he were to pursue her further. The only attempt at defense was her shielding her face with her hand—forgetting that she was no longer in swan form.

The man set down his crossbow and approached her slowly, stating that he meant no harm. Despite his reassurances, she still tried to elude him. Curious, he asked her why she was here. She halted her escape and attempted to stand still, explaining to him that she was the queen of the swans and that there was a lake nearby that was created from her mother's tears. And not far from here, there was a powerful evil sorcerer named Von Rothbart—it was he who cursed her into becoming a swan.

But—

You observed as your doppelganger placed her hand over the spot where her heart beats. "If the one who loves me marries me and swears to be faithful, then I will no longer be a swan.”

So gentle was his touch as he held her, as if she would perish if he were to apply any more force. She had always seen herself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of her—devoid of hope since her dreams had already been extinguished. Long had she borne the weight of this curse, believing that no such man—or such love—could ever prove her wrong.

But being in his arms now reignited the dwindling ember in her. She fell to his feet, her frail bone like brittle twigs. Before she knew it, his name spilled from her lips in a plea—for him to save her—for him to love and save her.

When he protected her from the sorcerer, she perceived him as a kind of savior. Were you the one written in the prophecy? To soothe her aching joints and tell her that she was worth saving—that she was not as far gone as everyone had led her to believe. Wide-eyed, she watched him declare his love—his promise to return for her. The scene came to an end, leaving the enchanted lake alone again.

(My heart is an overripe pomegranate; will you be the one to harvest it?)

The crimson curtain fell, signaling the end of the act. You watched as the doppelganger rushed off the stage. She passed by Henri, who stood in the wings, his expression full of concern as his head turned to follow her as she disappeared behind the door.

Entering the dressing room once more, the doppelganger shut the door behind her. Slowly, she approached the vanity table, sitting on the chair. She stared back at her image in the mirror, but her expression was similar to that of someone offering it to a complete stranger. Carefully, she began to remove the pristine white headpiece, placing it on the table's surface. She opened her eyeshadow palette and prepared to do her makeup for the Black Swan.

The white costume had been replaced by a lustrous black ensemble, adorned with sequins on the torso. Her makeup was bolder now, with heavier and more pronounced strokes around her eyes that would be visible even from the farthest reaches of the theater. On top of your head, a new headpiece rests, fancier and heavier.

It didn’t take long before a knock came at the door, and “you” left to return backstage.

With the heavy castle doors opening to the sound of trumpets announcing her entrance, Odile was confident she would win the favor of this prince. In her fiery blood that boiled like bubbling potion in a cauldron, she was well-versed in such things—gracing elegant balls in a flashy black dress that contrasted sharply with the unfortunate girl suffering under her father's curse and captivating everyone's attention without even trying.

Odile was made to be a social butterfly, albeit borrowing Odette’s appearance.

It was a mere game to her, nothing more than a side pleasure. When she caught sight of the unsuspecting prince, she struggled desperately to suppress a victorious smile. Even before she danced, this callow man seemed ready to offer her his heart on a silver platter. No wonder her father was so worried—this prince truly loved the white swan girl.

Poor soul, indeed. To perceive love as something lavish, rather than something to be used and thrown aside at will. How naïve. Odile would never be like that. If she were to speak truthfully, they would make a good pair—this swan girl and this prince.

And no, she had not come here in hopes of his love. Such a thing wasn’t in her lexicon. Love was a repugnant thing. She saw it as nothing more than a tool to manipulate, to control someone—like a rein on a horse, a whip on a cow. Love was a repugnant thing; it left you fretting about what someone thought and felt about you. She wouldn’t allow anyone to define her.

Under no one's critical eye, Odile flourished into who she wanted to be—dancing in whichever direction she desired. Agile, sharp, seductive. Brimming with confidence. Immune to the murmurs and jeers of others—let the dog bark, she wouldn’t allow anyone to define her. She wanted to be a star and she knew she would become the brightest star in the universe.

The red lip of that doppelganger curved upwards into a smile that was almost identical to the one the girl from the club had. If she were speaking verbally instead of in pantomime, you were sure her voice would sound exactly like hers.

Odile danced and danced, eluding the prince's grasp. But, unlike the timid Odette, she seemed to indulge in the thrill of the chase—a prize rather than a prey, toying with the man who so desperately desired her. Love was a repugnant thing, indeed. She continued this dance of cat and mouse. This game in which she knew full well who would emerge victorious.

(Instead of her falling at his feet, it was he who knelt before her.)

The doppelganger launched into the 32 fouettés, her body spinning with speed and precision. You hear the applause of the audience. The muscles in her legs rippled beneath the fluffy, black tutu as she spun and completed the variation.

You couldn’t remember how you made it backstage, but you find yourself on your knees—your stomach twisting itself into a painful knot. It's the same sensation you experienced hours ago—the unfinished consequences demanding your attention. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you're clenching your fists, and your face turns a deep shade of red as you grimace in pain.

The sound of multiple footsteps is heard as several dancers and crew members rush to your side, including the director—Henri. You can hear their concerned voices, one of them asking if it was cramps and another already rushing to find the medicine box they keep on hand. The backstage area turns into a chaotic scene, with you becoming the focus.

“Mon dieu!” Henri exclaimed. “What is happening? Tell me, where are you hurt?”

Trying to hold back your pained voice, you spoke in a breathless tone, “It's—it's nothing. I… I just… I need a moment.”

But Henri wasn’t buying it. Turning to one of the other dancers, he said, “Get Claudine. she’ll have to take over the rest of the performance.”

“NO!” You screamed, face flushed with a mix of pain and anger. How could it be so easy for him to replace you? How could he abandon you and find someone else who doesn't even know him as well as you do, thinking that is enough to fill your place? After hours of feeling empty, you almost forgot how burning anger can be. “I can do this. I know I can! Just give me a moment. I can finish this.”

Forcing yourself to get up as you had done a thousand times before, you bit your lower lip to hold back the excruciating burn. You clutched your abdomen, focusing your brain only on putting one foot in front of the other as you made your way down the corridor and into the dressing room.

When you turn to face the mirror, there you are waiting—you in your body. Slowly, you walk to the vanity, sinking down in the chair and hunching forward. You allow yourself a maximum of twenty seconds to steady your breathing, as well as to allow the suggestion to convince your mind and body that the pain isn't as excruciating as it feels, so it can stop exaggerating it.

Gritting your teeth, you reach for the cotton pads and makeup remover, wiping off the heavy, dark eye makeup of the Black Swan. The white is stained with black, tossed aside in a nearby trash bin. Then, you grab the same eyeshadow palette and use the brush to apply it across your eyelids.

As you lean in toward the mirror, your eyes narrow at a small patch of black that you missed—a stubborn remnant of the Black Swan makeup. Instinctively, you try to scrape it away with the tip of your nail. The action stings, causing your eyes to water. You try again, but the stain remains as a blemish on the supposedly pristine White Swan makeup. It will never be as clean as it was at the start.

At that moment, you did the last thing you thought you would do. You laughed. Tortured by the agony in your stomach and the stubborn black stain that marred your appearance, you laughed. You’ve never felt so alive—pain made you feel truly alive; anger made you feel real. Throughout your existence, you’ve seen yourself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of you. But now? Now, you’re filled with resentment, with betrayal. Up until now, you've been grieving, but now your grief has turned into anger.

Staring at your reflection, a mix of loathing and pity fills your heart. Why did you make me like this? What did I do wrong that you made me like this? Is it because I am a horrible person? Who made me a horrible person? Why did you let me live if I am such a horrible person? If I am truly irredeemable, why did you let me live instead of letting me die?

You laughed again, as if daring yourself to find a trace of real amusement in it. There was none. You kept laughing, your eyes locked on your own gaze in the mirror, waiting for that genuine spark of joy to ignite it—it never came. It was then that you realized that every time you performed this little “act,” the only person you had been fooling was yourself. Your lips began to wobble, a shaky breath escaping you as you lowered your gaze, your head bowing slightly. The stinging tears dripped onto the surface of the vanity table, dampening it.

When you stepped back onto the stage, the world was inundated in an overwhelming light, so bright that it almost burned your eyes. The flocks of swans around you scattered in pandemonium, aware of their imminent doom. You dance the dying swan—feeling every flabbiness of her joints, the trembling of her limbs as the curse seeped deeper into her blood – forever transforming her into a swan. The infamous Tchaikovsky score swelled around you as everything grew more intense.

In the hope of a happy ending, you find yourself scattered. If this were a pain of your own causing, perhaps you would find satisfaction in self-destruction. But this is not the case. The betrayal inflicted upon you is flaunted—paraded as a display of how foolishly you placed your trust. The artificial moon hanging overhead seems to gloat in your suffering.

You felt your steps lighten as you made your way up. As you reached the edge, the orchestra played to a climax, the drums echoing throughout the hall. Turning to face the prince, you met his gaze one final time before launching yourself off the surface.

The drums reached a deafening volume as you hit the mattress. Instantly, your surroundings seemed like a fever dream, with phantom sensations all over your body. You could hear the hurried footsteps of someone rushing towards you and the touch of something warm against your cold, sweaty forehead. “Something’s not right,” they said, “call an ambulance!” they shouted. It was odd how panicked they sounded when all you could think about was that empty chair in the front row—the one reserved for the man you were still waiting for even now.

Deep within your consciousness, a memory surfaces from your first recital in elementary school—where the younger you stares at the empty chair right next to Mother’s. It should've been occupied by the man the eight-year-old you had been waiting for—Daddy. He had promised to bring you flowers, to come and watch. Yet, the chair remained empty.

In both of those broken promises, somehow you find consolation. There's a peculiar reassurance in knowing that you’ve survived through something similar before, so you’ll overcome this one too. This is how most humans continue on, accumulating wounds atop wounds.

When you open your eyes, you blink against the blinding fluorescent light that illuminates the unfamiliar white ceiling above you. Confused, you sweep your gaze around for answers, trying to make sense of your situation. It takes you a few minutes to finally realize that you are in a hospital, on a patient bed, and connected to a dripping IV hanging from a steel pole next to you.

Memories of what had happened flood back into your mind, and instinctively, you search for any traces of pain. Strangely, it's nowhere to be found. You're unsure if this numbness is a product of another episode of detachment or if the pain has been dealt with. Nevertheless, you're grateful for it.

You furrow your eyebrows and reach for the call button. Within moments, a nurse appeared with her tired face, making you wonder how long her shift has been. It's just the two of you in the room, provoking the "stranger danger" in you until she flashes you a warm, kind smile that instantly dispels your concerns. She slowly approached your bed.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, you wonder how to answer the question. “I feel strange” is the best you can come up with. “What happened to me?”

The nurse's expression shifted. “Well now, it seems you may be suffering from a touch of… medication poisoning, love.” She meets your gaze, indifferent to the awkwardness you feel. “Luckily, it appears your liver is still in good shape—if we'd gotten to you even a bit later, the outcome might have been different.”

It wasn't hard to understand what she was implying. The difference. Of course it was poisoning, you scoffed inwardly. There was no way you had taken those pills and mixed them with alcohol and not expecting this. But you couldn't bring yourself to admit it out loud, not with the nurse watching you so intently so you just nodded wordlessly.

“Now, while this may have been unintentional, I’m afraid the psychiatrist will still need to have a chat with you, just to make sure everything is on the up an’ up.”

Your head shot up at her words. “Psychiatrist?”

“Yep,” the nurse emphasized the ‘p’ with a pop. “We've seen cases like this before. Sometimes it's an accident, sometimes..." She paused, considering whether to continue, but ultimately decided not to. “Anyway, we just want to be absolutely certain you're getting the proper care and support you need so you leave the hospital healed an’ happy.”

Forcing a chuckle, you tried to play it off as nothing more than a simple silly mistake. “It was just a bit of a mix-up, that's all. I took some pills and had a few drinks; nothing to worry about, really.” You give her a sheepish smile, hoping it will convince her.

But then again, you know that being here means there’s little you can do to avert the truth. They have their ways of uncovering the real story—they had access to all sorts of analyses and evidence, and you’re sure they've probably already run tests on your bodily fluids when you were brought in unconscious. These people have spent years studying biology and chemistry, yet you believe you can fool them with half-baked excuses and foolish smiles.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” you murmured, voice lowered to a barely audible whisper. “It was just an accident, I swear. I never..”

The poorly constructed lie might seem very obvious to the woman—especially with the way you’re behaving right now. Fortunately, she didn’t call you out on it directly. If she suspected something, she didn’t voice it.

“This is just standard procedure, a’igh? Nothin’ to be afraid of, I promise!”

Fairly speaking, since she entered the room, this woman has displayed nothing but kindness and non-judgmental advice. She is a good, reassuring person, and you wish you could be a better patient for her. But you are not.

The immeasurable fear inside you has spread and seeped too deep for someone to pull you out. A psychiatrist. The thought of someone competent to dissect your head like an organism under a microscope—to effortlessly pinpoint every sore spot and chronic abscess, uncover the roots of your actions, and link them to your past and present selves. To have them write down a diagnosis of what's wrong with you, a label that ties everything together, fills you with both dread and impotence.

And what if, on the flip side, there was nothing wrong with you at all? What if this was all just a product of your own design—a wounded person’s need for another wound?

Out of concern, the nurse offered, “Would you like me to have her come in?”

“Her?”

“Sorry! Uh, seems when you came in, the first emergency number we had on file was disconnected. So we had a go at the second one on the list. Sabrina, right?”

At the mention of your cousin's name, you're reminded that you've listed her as your second emergency contact. While the thought of disturbing her honeymoon period is met with a pang of guilt, you find yourself nodding in agreement.

“Yes, please,” you murmured. “I… I would appreciate that.”

“Alright, love, I’ll fetch her for you straight away.”

As the nurse exited the room, a hush fell over the space; the only audible sounds were from the soft purr of the air conditioner and the muffled voices from the hallway outside. You adjust the pillow behind your back to find a more comfortable position. Waiting, your eyes keep darting towards the door for Sabrina to come through that door.

When the door finally creaks open, you feel a surge of relief, expecting to see Sabrina's blonde hair and cheerful presence. For her to rush to your bed and hug you just like she used to when you were children.

But when it dawned on you who the person was, your sense of relief dissolved as you sharply inhaled. It wasn't your cousin—it wasn't Sabrina. The middle-aged woman stepped through the threshold, the shape of her eyes bore a striking resemblance to yours. It was, you prayed, the only trait that you had inherited from her. From your mother.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull @olives10 @cricricorner @idrkman @strrynigghts @mims900

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kiryoutann · 7 months ago

Text

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TRIGGER WARNING: attempted baby trapping, detailed writing about burns and scars.

Mother says she was the first witness to your very first steps.

Surrounded by four newly renovated nursery walls—painted her favorite pink and adorned with decorations Dad hung for a pop of color. Stuffed animals everywhere, even a 43-inch-tall dollhouse waiting to be discovered.

But, of all the toys, that chubby baby girl determinedly balanced herself on her awkward legs. Mother said you smiled widely, showing a toothless grin and extending your tiny hands forward. Eyes wide open when you almost fell, yet the stubborn baby refused to give up until you reached your mother's arms.

Maybe you simply saw something you wanted. Your mother.

How odd. The thought that you ever wanted your mother is an absurd notion. Because as Simon's car sped off, leaving the manor behind you, all you felt was a sense of relief that you had once again escaped her.

Maybe you wanted your mother only when she wanted you too. Lately—for the past few years after you were ten—she acted like she hated you, and children are truly just mirrors of their parents, incapable of hating before being hated first.

Or maybe—so many maybes when it comes to her—Mother didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t intend to instill this distorted image of yourself with every drop of poison she poured on you. Maybe she simply lacked the knowledge and skills to be a mother, lacking a positive role model from the start.

But intentions mean nothing compared to the outcome, the fed-up rational voice asserts. It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it, because in the end she hurt you. The difference between love and hate becomes this fine line that eventually fades and mixes the two together.

It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it this way at first, because the first time turned into the second time, then the third and suddenly now it's the thousandth time. She breeds her pattern and uses it to make you suffocate. And when you try to break free, she looks at you like a disobedient child full of rebellion.

The sickening optimists will tell you to look on the bright side—that it shaped you, made you the woman you are today. But back then, you were a child—you would have grown up inevitably, so going through all that was just an unjust burden.

(All adults do is cause pain, the little girl said.)

Some crackling radio tune played softly as Simon drove in silence through the dark, winding country roads. No questions came—which you were thankful for; you weren’t ready to unpack all that long history just yet. His brown eyes were locked in focus as he steered the car around the turns as if he’d been through this before.

The car slowed and rolled to a stop outside a sprawling two-story building. A pub—from the weathered sign carved on its old stone. Different from the ones in London, of course, this one's cozier and more inviting. Gazing out the rain-spattered window, you squint and see another sign above the door: “The Fox and Hounds Inn.” So they also offer rooms, it seemed.

Simon turned off the engine and twisted in his seat. Reaching behind, he snatched up the suit jacket he had thrown back there earlier. Turning to you, he held it out, signaling you to take it.

“Cover yer ‘ead.” He nods towards the pouring rain outside.

You took it, breathing in Simon’s scent—a hint of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke—as you draped it over your head as a hood. The sound of the door being opened roughly is heard. Simon has rushed out into the downpour and retrieved your bags from the trunk. Slipping from the car, you hurry to take shelter under the pub’s roof, waiting for Simon before going through the door.

The inside of the pub was surrounded by warm hues. Old wooden shelves stood displaying a variety of bottles of spirits, with low lights casting a dim glow. Worn leather booths were occupied by a few locals who had settled in with their pints, while two others shot pool in the back corner. Behind the bar, the bartender paused from wiping glasses; a questioning look flashed across his face before smoothing it once more.

He set his glass down and asked, "What can I get ya?”

“Bourbon. Kentucky, if y’ve got it.” Simon said.

The bartender cocked his head, checking his stock. “Aye, we’ve a bottle or two left.” Turning back to him, he asked again, “Anyth’ else?”

Simon turned to you. “You want anything?”

“I'm alright, thanks.” You answered in a husky voice.

“Just the bourbon then, and a room for the night.”

At that, the bartender just nodded, reaching beneath the bar to produce an iron key, its number as a keychain. “Room six, up the stairs and to your left. Let me know if you’ll be wantin’ breakfast in the morn.” He explained with efficiency, all business, saving more time from nonsense.

The heavy wooden stairs creaked underfoot as you climbed to the room. Reaching the door carved with the number six, Simon twisted the key and pushed the door open. He set the bags on the old table by the window, leaving your suitcase beside it.

Glancing around, you took in the faded floral wallpaper, lumpy bed, and worn armchair—not fancy, but it would do for a night’s rest. You wandered around the room, stopping when you passed a mirror—your own reflection with mascara tracks smeared across your cheeks, lipstick smudging past your lip line.

“Did I just walk around like this all afternoon?” You wiped away the dark trails, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere for exactly the reason why. That or it was just you and your guilt for dragging Simon into this unplanned mess.

The effort fell flat, much like your numb heart. Simon was still wound tight as a spring, with the venomous words of that woman replaying in his mind. However, your own perspective perceived his distant attitude as anger. Mother would often give you two days of silent treatment whenever she was upset, so you presumed it was the same case with Simon.

You nearly jumped from his grunt. Out of the corner of your eye, Simon took out his cigarette and lit it, always paying no attention to where he was smoking. Taking a deep drag, he let the smoke curl slowly as he exhaled towards the ceiling.

The bathroom door creaked open at his touch; Simon gave it a sweep of his eyes to access the condition of it—nothing but the basics; thankfully, the shower worked. He turned then, coming over to where you were sitting on the lumpy mattress.

“Shower,” he rumbled, jerking his head towards the bath. “Get that rainwater off ya.”

(You’re angry, aren’t you?)

The conclusion was drawn after his tone sounded colder than normal—his words were curt, as if he didn't wish to waste breath on you. While a part of you argued this was just the way he spoke all the time, another louder voice suggested there was more going on. His brown eyes held a deeper stirring, a visible frown etched into his features. Simon would likely extend the silence if not for the concern that you would trouble him more if you fell ill.

It hurls you into this desperate need to win him over, despite being uncertain if there's an actual competition to be won. You struggle to contain the age-old, desperate question, but you are known to be a failure at everything.

"Are... are you angry with me?” The question leaves you, hanging awkwardly in the air.

At that, Simon's blonde eyebrows furrowed. "What?" he asked, sharp. Like he's offended.

Your heart thudded against your ribs as you struggled to lift your gaze, meeting his stare. “I just… are you angry with me?”

A scoff, then—

“No.” Simon replied curtly. “Why the bloody ‘ell would I be angry with you?” he added, then chastised himself when the words came out harsher than intended.

But the prejudice had seeped into your pores, causing your shoulders to tense and your head to hang low. You hated this—hated feeling like an over-sensitive child, upset over nothing, easily hurt by everything. Lifting your head, you tried to blink away the pricking tears pooling in your eyes.

Simon lets out a hushed sigh before squeezing out his cigarette and sitting down next to you, the bed creaking under the new weight. Outside, the leaves rustle in the cold night breeze. Within these four walls, you both sit side by side in silence.

“I ain't... that is... I’m not angry. Not with you, at least.” He tries to sort out his words. Something kinder but ends awkwardly—nonetheless, acceptable.

A few tears escaped and rolled hot down your cheeks before the blurry world came back into focus. You raised your eyes to his.

“I'm sorry,” you say, almost a whisper. “I'm such a crybaby, I know.”

“None o’ that now,” Simon soothed you, timbre as soft as talcum powder. “Ain't got nothin' to apologize for.”

As he said that, he used his thumb to catch your tears, wiping them away gently, almost as if he didn't want another to stain your cheeks. And under his touch, you became still, like obedient clay waiting to be molded by him. You existed solely for him, willingly presenting your skin as a canvas in case he wanted to brand his name on you. Make me yours, your cheap little heart begged; make me yours until I forget who I am.

(Grant me an identity that isn't me.)

I will shed the pieces of myself now like outgrown armor. The nights are prone to the past—never quiet—and I don't like that.

(Give birth to a new me. Someone who isn't what remains left of that little girl.)

The universe explodes another big bang, and your new world is created as you settle on his lap. So sudden you don't even remember crawling towards him. But as your lips crash into his, devouring his moist flesh with your own in an effort to mold it into one, it no longer matters how. Your teeth clamp down on his lower lip, drawing out a grunt as you bite down lightly and feel the taste of his iron against your tongue. Blood-eater woman.

Your hands cup his jaw, tracing the strong, defined bones beneath the blanket of skin. Then, you drag them down to his thundering neck, following the faint pillars, the curve of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of scar tissue from over-healed wounds.

Simon gasps into your mouth as your hips grind against his, stoking his lust even higher and swelling his cock. He grips your sides, guiding your movements as you seek balance with your grip on his broad shoulders. You moan, pressing your upper body against his face, and he inhales all your scent like he's been deprived of oxygen for ages.

Your desire drips so easily onto your tongue.

Practiced in the efficiency you learned from him, your fingers unbutton his shirt one by one, watching more and more of his skin exposed to you as you unwrap the white fabric off his body.

Simon trailed his tongue down the satin of your dress, tasting it against his gustatory system like a mindless dog. He closes his lips around your erect nipple. Blindly, his digits reached for the laces on your back, tugging it with one unsuccessful pull and two successful ones. The dress undone, your chest completely exposed to his hungry eyes. Simon wasted no time in latching his mouth onto your breasts.

“Ah-! Simon, Simon… slow down.”

You attempted to accommodate his face in your small hands, urging him to meet your gaze. When did you grow accustomed to searching—to decipher the meaning behind his every look, searching for a reflection of your own feelings in his eyes? Hoping to find evidence that he wanted you just as deeply as you yearned for him.

From the moment we first met, Simon had been a confounding puzzle, a conundrum without any clues or leads. An enigma, the deep forest at dusk. He revealed so little, yet, that very scarcity only piqued your curiosity further—inviting the solver girl within you to unravel each layer, to explore every wrinkle in the intricate tapestry that was him.

“I… I want to lead. If that’s all right.” You whispered, looking for disagreement in his gaze.

None, just a gentle squeeze on your hip. He nodded, then, “Alright, love.”

At that, your eyes sparkled, you gave him a smile in return. Biting your lip, you pondered your next move. “Lay down for me.”

Without hesitation, he did as you asked, settling back against the pillows. The roughness of his form was a stark contrast to the linen, muscles rippling beneath inked skin. Eyes as dark as oak never left yours, silently urging you to continue.

Nerves danced inside you, but you chuckled, “I was gonna take this dress off all sexy-like; maybe spin around slow. But you ruined that plan.”

“Should’ve been more patient then, eh?” He said, wetting his lips then.

You sighed, half-shrugging. “Well, I don’t know what sexy moves I can do now.”

“Don’t matter none. You’re always a sight for sore eyes.”

The boldness of his words causes you to throw your head back in laughter. “Are you saying all this just to get laid quicker?"

Simon lets out a raspy chuckle. “Nah,” he watches his own hand travel up your thigh, giving it a squeeze and rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Looking back up at you, you feel your heart skip a beat. “I’m sayin’ it cause it’s the truth. You are the most fuckin’ gorgeous creature I ever did lay eyes on.”

The plum of your lips is pulled into a shy smile. You replay his words in your mind like a wrinkled tape, your soul made to sparkle and float on clouds. He called me gorgeous, you thought.

Simon called you gorgeous—despite everything your mother led you to believe. Despite her words that left you feeling like an hideous being, a flawed and misshapen creature crafted by the hands of an unforgiving God. But he said I was gorgeous, Mother. Most fucking gorgeous.

"Well, you're rather handsome yourself." In truth, this is all amusing—this sudden exchange of compliments between the two of you, with you still sitting right on top of his groin, in your loose dress and Simon shirtless.

But, like an opportunist, you place your finger on the sloping hill of his chest. You feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing—the stuttering of air in his lungs as you make circular motions on his bare skin. “Too bad that you always hide it under a mask.”

The diaphragm beneath his thick skin contracted faintly as he chuckled. Taking your index finger, Simon then held it between his teeth. He sucked the tip slowly and watched you through hooded eyes.

“The mask’s for another reason, darlin’,” he rumbled once he released it.

There it is again. The invisible veil now made visible, taunting you with the reminder that there's always a part of him that remains unknown, no matter how deep you try to dig or how many layers you think you’ve shed. Lately, you'd pushed the limits further than necessary, testing unseen boundaries—just how far were you willing to go, or how far would he allow before growing weary of it?

“And why is that, your mask?”

He gave your thigh another squeeze, his fingers drumming a random rhythm as he considered his response. “That’s a story for another day.” He replied.

It sounded like a promise, felt like an oath. Apparently, your heart found solace in that—in the future and the exact day that story would arrive. You smiled down at him, nodding in agreement.

“Okay, then I suppose that’s a promise, Mr. Simon…”

“Riley,” he fills in the blank space behind. “Simon Riley.”

The heart in the confines of your rib cage throbs with thrill. You smile brightly, testing the full name on your tongue. “Simon Riley…”

After a pause, your hands returned to their task, drifting down his firm torso until they reached his jeans. You made quick work of the buttons, pulling them down and tossing them carelessly to the floor, leaving him in only his gray boxers. Trying to match, you let your gown pool on the floor, leaving you in your black lacy panties.

Here you are, both bare chested, one cloth away from being completely naked. Two imperfect mirror reflections, similar yet distinct in their differences.

You glance back at him, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. His grin greets you in return, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth as his eyes roam approvingly over your form. You stand still, waiting, observing his growing impatience until he finally lets out a raspy chuckle, beckoning you closer with a casual crook of his finger.

“Come ‘ere.”

At his call, you obey like a good obedient girl dedicating her whole life to him.

Crawling onto the bed, your breasts hanging freely with each step your knees take. You stop right above his face, gazing into his warm chocolate with your cheeks blooming red.

Leaning in, you flicked your tongue out to taste the seam of his lips, drawing a soft groan from deep in his chest. Your back stretched to its maximum, arching like a harp as you became greedier and greedier and claimed his mouth completely. Your fond tongue traced his teeth, stroking the velvety softness of his inner cheeks, the contours of his palate. The pricking sensation of his stubble against your chin intertwined with the sweet wetness of your mingled saliva.

Your breasts pressed against his broad chest, the fat melting like popsicles in the hot sun. Swinging one leg across, you sit on top of him with your thighs straddling his hips, feeling the thick mound beneath his boxers from his hardening cock against your soaked panties.

As you began to grind on top of him, Simon grunted into your mouth. He slid his big hands down to squeeze your ass, kneading the soft cheeks as he thrust up to meet your clothed cunt. You moaned at the sensation, breaking the kiss but not tearing your gaze away as you straightened your spine to rock your hips back and forth.

Look at that pair of dark eyes—so devoted in their witnessing of every sway of your tits, with the gaping mouth of a hungry man. He lies beneath you, broad shoulders and thick arms corded with muscle built from the hard days of the military. Blonde hair around his chest, trailing down to his stomach and hidden beneath the tempting waistband of his boxers.

And those scars, of course. Especially that goddamn mysterious scar near his ribs. Were they created by 'bad men' or did you deserve it for the bad deeds you had committed, Simon?

Taking one of his hands, you place it on one of your breasts. Simon closes his hand around it, his thumb and index finger curling into a twist at your nipple. You let out a moan, biting your lower lip in a poor effort to keep another one from escaping you.

"Simon,” you breathed, his length twitching against your cunt.

Rolling your hips, your clothed clit rubbed against his hardness. You closed your eyes, breathing out slowly through parted lips, feeling the friction. He placed his hands on your sides, guiding your movements into a steady rhythm.

“Fuck, look at ya, darlin’…”

Bathed in the dim lighting of this inn, you were a sight he wanted to capture. Sitting on top of him like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place—the very reason for his convulsing cock, the numbing of his brain, his ears tuning out the noise of his old brain. As you continued to roll your hips, he watched every detail and seared it all in the back of his head.

The way sweat slicks and rests on the dip of your collarbone. Kiss-swollen sweet lips, tempting for him to bite or wrap around his throbbing length. Heavy eyelids and dark traces of your mascara.

Fuck, look at those puffy eyes.

Simon had endured his fair share of cuts and gunshot wounds. But nothing prepared him for the invisible grip on his heart when he realized what your cries left behind—puffy and red-rimmed like bruised berries. Fuckin’ hell…

Wanting more, you slide your lace aside. You restart your pace, gasping in pleasure at the new direct contact, the wetness of your building peak coloring the fabric of his boxer darker. The throbbing inside you begins, growing stronger the more you grind. You almost lose your pace—Simon’s large hands grip your hips to guide your movements toward climax.

The tight coil within you twists tighter. You breathe in short, ragged gasps; eyes squeezed shut as white flashes explode behind your lids. The cresting wave rises to a peak, making your thighs tremble.

When it hits, you throw your head back with a cry, Simon supporting your arched back with a strong palm behind you. The heat in your lower belly flushes as your release drips down to his boxers.

You slumped limp against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around you, waiting for you to catch your breath while he inhaled his own. Christ, your scent is intoxicating—that sweet soap you were devoted to, the perfume he often saw on your dresser, and something natural about you that made his cock throb, begging to be released from the boxers beneath you. It took every ounce of willpower for him not to flip you over and take his fill.

A gentle giggle bubbled up. Simon furrowed his brows, meeting your eyes as you lifted your chin with a lazy smile.

“That was… weird,” you said, confusion written all over your face.

“What’s weird?”

“Well, for starters…” you glanced down between you, tracing a finger along the damp patch staining his boxers and chuckling again when he hissed. “I ruined these.”

Simon chuckled, shifting his hips. “Don’t matter none though, does it? You’re gonna ‘ave them off me soon enough anyway.”

You laugh – the warm, carefree sound from deep within your chest. Cheeks flushed rosy, and you’re sure your eyes sparkled. “Okay, okay. That’s something I might do.”

Leaning down, you brushed your lips against his in almost a chaste kiss. Simon couldn't resist, prolonging it by deepening it gently. He hooked his fingers around the lace loops on your hips, giving a playful tug as your mouths moved slow and sweet.

Breaking away, he narrows his eyes at your black panties. “You can still do them sexy moves takin’ this off, y’know…”

At his words, your smile stretches from ear to ear. Muttering an “okay,” you slip off him and the bed, standing in front of him. He fixes his dark eyes on you, melting the sudden shyness and encouraging you to continue the show. Slowly, teasingly, you begin to peel down your lace, small laughs escaping your throat.

“Well?” you ask, cheeks now rosy as you pose for his eyes. “How’s this?”

“Fucking perfect, darlin’,”

You toss aside your last garment, showing off your fully naked form like some kind of high fashion model. “Your turn now,” you say, walking toward him.

Reaching for the waist of his boxers, you began easing them down as well, eager to harvest the fruits of your ministry for each other. But, as it slid off his ankle, your eyes landed on his skin, and your smile faded, realizing something you hadn't before.

Knotted, mottled skin stretched from his right hip and down the side of his shin. The scars were old, but the memory of the fire that had once caressed him was immortalized in their rugged, rough texture. You tried to avert your already teary eyes from it, but instead found more scars around his legs—some nearly identical to the ones scattered across his upper body, some others resembled surgical scars long healed.

A lump rises in your throat, but you try to smile and crawl back into his lap, trying to lose yourself in whatever follows. But the façade crumbles, and you find yourself frozen, staring at him while fighting back tears pricking the backs of your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” And yet, Simon opens the door for you to broach the subject. Must’ve been something about your expression.

You briefly considered playing dumb, but your chance evaporated when a treacherous tear slipped freely. Hastily wiping it away, you took a shaky breath, focusing your gaze on the ceiling to prevent another from falling. You stared into his eyes again, and Simon saw the composure you had so carefully maintained on the edge of crumbling again.

“Those scars…” Your voice wavered, and you had to pause to steady it. “Were they from your time in the military?”

Watching those pretty lips tremble, tears marring your beautiful face, he felt a sickening clench in his chest. Part of him hated seeing you so sad, while another swelled with something akin to misplaced pride – that this angel was weeping over scars so old they had long since stopped hurting him.

Scars from battles the old Simon had fought years ago. Scars he had seen as part of his creation, marks he bore without feeling.

“Some from service, yeah. Others… more personal-like.” He said it nonchalantly. In his perspective, as proof that it didn’t hurt anymore, didn't need to numb it with ice like he did in the past—so, sweet thing, stop crying over him.

As if that were possible. He could tell you that it happened years ago, but it doesn't matter; it wouldn't lessen the pain even if your human life spanned a hundred centuries. Your tongue seared, heart sliced—someone touched the one you love with the most brutal violence they could choose in this world.

The image must have been absurd—the two of you completely naked in front of each other, yet instead of continuing, you weep over him. But now that you’ve seen it—those scars etched so cruelly and eternally upon his flesh—how do you look away?

"Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?” Your voice trembled, tracing that scar near his ribs that had caught your attention since you first saw it. It stood out, raised and knotted in a way that spoke of a cruel blade—making you wince at the thought of the pain. “Is… is this from your time in the military too?”

“Yeah,”

“What happened?”

Without any real weight, he said, “Got meself ‘anged by the ribs once,” in a light intonation as if it were some kind of joke.

But it wasn’t. My God, you wished it was, but it wasn’t, judging by the scars.

Despite his effort, it couldn’t mask the horror he’d experienced. Your breath hitches in a sob, your hand trying to cover your mouth. Your airway constricts as you imagine how it must have felt for him then. Hanged by the ribs, feeling your skin tear from holding your weight, flesh on display like they do in a slaughterhouse.

And he still manages to shush you, drawing your head to his chest in a tight hug like you’re the one who’s been through it all.

“Twern’t nothin’ – doesn’t even ‘urt no more.”

Pressed against his skin, you seek the usual solace that his heartbeat brings. But your heart remains unsettled, a lingering question nagging at your mind and tongue, refusing to let you find peace until it's voiced.

Raising your head slightly, chin resting upon his chest, you meet his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "And... and the burn scars?”

“House fire during a mission.”

You know that’s not the full truth, but you don’t dare to press it, choosing to spare your heart from more details of his agonies.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt.” You said.

Simon gave a small hum in response. Reaching up, he wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Then stop cryin', love. 'Urts more to see yer pretty face all red and puffy.”

The hands around your jaw bring you closer. This time, he's the first to initiate this new kiss, closing his lips around yours with almost hesitant caution. And you want to cry—you want to cry from how gentle his touch is, and yet someone has handled him in the cruelest way possible.

Here you are, bodies pressed together—chest to chest, skin to skin. You let out a gasp as he grips your ass cheeks, spreading them until the chilly air touches your soaked folds. Simon would rather have those pretty eyes rolled back in pleasure than cry; he would rather have those plump lips parted to moan erotic sounds than sob. He bucks his hips and brushes the fat tip of his cock against your entrance.

Breaking the kiss, Simon gives a slow thrust upwards, grunting as he feels your warm labia. You straighten your back to sit on his pelvis, doing your own set of hip rolls as his hands guide you.

“No more tears f’me, ye ‘ear?” He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. “I ain’t worth it.”

The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.

“No—no, don’t say that. You’re—mmh!” You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. “You’re always worth it, Simon.”

Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.

“That so?”

Biting your lip, you nod. “Yes,”

“Yeah?”

Without waiting for a reply, he grips your hips and slams you against him in one swift thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut on a gasp as he sank home. He groans at the blissful feeling, the remnants of your last orgasm completely coating him. But he has never been a man of gratitude; the gaping hole near his ribs—right where the scar he has shown you and told you about—seems to consume every fulfillment he might have, leaving him perpetually feeling unsatisfied and not enough.

Right now, he felt utterly insufficient. His old soul was always left wanting for more. That stupid, almost pathetic desire for proof that he would never truly believe—

“Prove it then, love.”

And well, he is a selfish man after all.

Slowly, you begin to move, hips rocking sensually against him, stretching your cunt to take his cock. It’s sloppy at first, until you settle into a rhythm and set your pace. He takes in every beautiful detail of you – your kiss-swollen lips beneath the faint bite of your teeth, your skin shimmering with sweat, your bouncing tits as you ride him, and the way your walls tighten their embrace around his cock with each in and out.

“Tha’s it love, ride me.”

Your cunt fluttered at the encouragement. He traced your curves before stopping at your breasts, twisting and pulling your nipples, eliciting a whimper from your throat. Rolling your hips, you grind your clit against his pelvis. He gives a low grunt.

“A-ah, Simon-!”

Listen to that, his name rolling off your tongue like liquid sin, a constant he never gets tired of. The room temperature rises, an invisible fire burning in his groin as you bounce on his cock. Your fingers dig half-moons on his naked thighs.

The room seemed to burn, almost like reminiscent of the flames that once scorched his lower right side. But this time, the sensation that swept through him was one of pure euphoria. The suffering that had gripped him was erased, replaced by a fierce hunger to shed more than just your clothes. The overwhelming need to be swallowed whole, to reside between your viscera and become the first to be embraced there.

Like a fish out of a tank, your lips formed a perfect 'O'—an invitation he accepted as he slipped his rough fingers into your mouth and tucked them beneath the blanket of your tongue. The brush of warm flesh made his cock throb, drawing a muffled sound from you.

Simon put his free hand to continue steering your hips, maintaining their steady rhythm as they started to falter. The angry crown of his cock pulled out before slamming back in and disappearing between your plump labia. He let his ears feast on your cry, watching your eyes squeeze shut as he reached that sweet spot inside. Saliva dripped, running down the curve of your chin and down between your swaying breasts.

The ah-ah! sound becomes the only thing you can produce after he liquifies your brain into a tangled mess, trapping your tongue under the weight of his calloused fingers.

Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his length, your climax peeking and cresting, forming high waves. Simon growled through clenched teeth. Your back arched, head falling back as you surrendered to your second peak.

His grip on your hips tightened as a warning. “Off, love—fuck, ye gotta get off, now.”

You did not heed him, continuing to bounce on his twitching cock. He groaned, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of his release.

“Love,” he tries again before calling your name, his own hips stuttering.

“No, please- I’m—I’m on the pill,” you gasped—

And the lie slipped through your lips without thinking.

Even as a part of you knew this was wrong—that you were trying to trap him and you were being reckless—you kept going. Simon stopped trying to get you off him, letting you slam your hips one last time before he emptied thick ropes of seed into your womb.

Sex and your indifference to potential consequences permeated the air, screaming for your attention. A voice curses you in the back of your mind, full of snarls that you have gone too far; that you have hated Mother too much to dismiss everything she says—even the true ones—as nonsense. That you will only live to regret this.

But you have to—it's a necessity, driven by the roots that tell you to cement this bond between you. Sure, it may be born out of a desperate fantasy of your own insecurities, but you need this.

“Nothing can make them stay, my dear. Not for love, not for sex, for all your years of devotion to them, not even for their own flesh and blood!” Your mother is screaming in your head.

(Nonsense. Nonsense, all of it.)

You watch his chest rise and fall; somewhere deep within the confines of his strong ribs is a heart that beats in almost the same rhythm as yours. The dim lighting of the room you only acknowledge when it reflects faintly on the slick of his scar-littered skin. Those brown eyes stare at you beneath a canopy of blond lashes, moist lips pulled into a slight smile under his strong nose—and you return it with a wider one.

Would a child make you stay, Simon?

“Fucking ‘ell, love…” he muttered, still trying to catch his breath.

Unable to resist, you grind against his still-sensitive cock, earning a hiss and a hand on your hip to still you, making you chuckle.

“Don’t do that.” He mutters low and rough.

You nod, another giggle. Leaning forward, you press a quick kiss to his lips. “Okay, okay,” you say. “I’ll be good.”

Settling your head on his chest, Simon then pulls the blanket up before draping it over your naked bodies. You sigh in relief as he wraps his arms tightly around your smaller frame. Pulling you close, he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent.

You trace idle patterns on his skin, murmuring: “My big performance is in a month. I got a special pass for you, so you better not even think about missing it.”

“The swan play?”

“Yeah,” you answered, lifting your head to gaze up at him. "Promise you'll be there?"

Promises are risky business, especially for someone like him. He's well-versed in the knowledge that when someone makes a promise, it means they're up for something that always comes along to fuck it up.

Even so, the words came out before he could stop them. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love.”

Hearing that, your smile threatened to widen, and you plopped your head back flat against his chest before he saw it. Wanting something to focus on, you settled your gaze on the old window at the end of the room. It was still raining outside, but it had softened. The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded more like a gentle, faint tap, reminding you of the squeaking of the bed when you were still making love earlier.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulls you into a sense of peace. Then, there was a sudden urge to open up to him, created from a feeling of indebtedness to him. After all, he had been the one to step in earlier. There's still a lot Simon doesn't know about you, about Mother.

But just as you were about to part your lips, his arms tightened around you. The warmth of his touch made the courage to speak seep away, replaced by a crippling fear of ruining the moment. In the end, you clamped your mouth shut, squeezing your eyes closed as you forced yourself to let things be how they should be—unsaid.

The ghost of your mother's voice echoes in the back of your mind again. As you adjust your position, feeling the unfamiliar wetness on your thighs, you reassure yourself that this time is different; he is different. He’s going to stay. You feel his fingers gently carding through your hair, magically burning away any lingering doubts in the corners of your soul.

After everything, he has to.

The morning sun streams through the thin leaves as you and Simon get out of the car to stop for breakfast at the quaint little restaurant you came across. The chilly air still lingers, urging you to pull your cardigan tighter around you as you wait for the food to be served.

Taking in your surroundings, you notice the worn wooden floors, the mismatched chairs and tables. An old-fashioned cash register and shelves that hang various kinds of souvenirs typical of this small town and character key chains.

When the waiter—who also seemed to be the owner—placed two plates down, Simon ate without hesitation. You reached for your fork, but your eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. Time was ticking fast—the sand in the hourglass slipping through your fingers with each second. You could almost feel the ground beneath you shifting, the earth seeming to swallow you alive.

Breakfast is over. Simon paid the bill and slipped out first for a smoke while you waited for the change. The owner disappeared into the back, leaving you standing there alone. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, the only sound filling the silence.

Casting your gaze around, you search for a distraction, something to stare at. Your eyes eventually land on the souvenir rack. And there, among the keychains and trinkets, a skeleton charm catches your eye, black and white reminding you of the one Simon hangs in his car.

The sound of the door opening jolts you back to reality. The owner returns with a handful of bills in his outstretched hand. Instead of taking it, you point to the skeleton charm, waiting for the old man to follow your fingertip before asking, “How much for that one?”

As the other door opens with the soft chimes of a bell overhead, you walk towards Simon with a barely suppressed smile. He smells of tobacco like he always does after a smoke. But, you hardly mind; all you care about is the delicate skeleton charm you hold in front of him.

“Look what I got you!” you exclaim, your smile bursting from your lips.

Simon’s eyebrows furrowed, dark eyes studying the little bone-white friend. You wait and wait for him to say something; your legs feel jittery as the small figure swings dangling between your thumb and forefinger.

“It’s..interestin’,” he says, finally taking it from you, studying it closer. “Where'd you get it?”

“The owner had it on the shelf over there,” you say, nodding towards the display. “I.. well, I saw it and thought of you. I hope you like it.”

You watched as crow's feet formed at the corners of his eyes, his mouth twitching into a smile beneath his mask. Then, Simon let out a sound—a chuckle, a genuine one which then turned into a short laugh that spread sensations in your chest.

“Thanks,” Simon said to the owner, who was standing behind the cashier with his own grin.

Then, he turns to you, his arms reaching out to wrap around your shoulders. “An’ thanks to you, too,” he says, almost a whisper, meant for just the two of you. “It’s… perfect.”

Without another word, he pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin as you make your way out of the restaurant. The birds chirping, celebrating a sunny day in the countryside. But this warmth… it’s not from the sun, not from the kinder wind. He opens his car door as he always does, and you slide inside, still with the gentle rumble of his chuckle ringing in your head.

You hoped this would never end.

You hoped—

The short trip to the English countryside was almost over; you had to go back to practice and rehearsals on Monday, and Simon had his agenda of disappearing to God knows where else. You didn’t question it; you didn’t ask anymore. You were comfortable enough with the many question marks that always seemed to surround him. He always came back in the end—that's what matters.

As you neared London, Simon pulled into a petrol station to refuel. He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. The door closed, and you were left alone with your gray thoughts.

You watched Simon standing outside the car, focused on refueling the tank. Fumbling for your phone, you saw the time – well past midnight. After this, he would definitely drive you home, then disappear for weeks, leaving you to wait. He always came back in the end – that’s what matters, you kept telling yourself.

(But a man who always comes back is a man who always leaves.)

Your eyes drifted to your purse at your feet, where the other phone—the newer one, the one you bought on impulse—lay hidden. Biting your lip, you snatched it up, unlocking it and quickly checking the “Find My” app, making sure the two devices were connected.

Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself, internal debate building but you know which side you’re leaning. This is wrong, probably will do more harm than good to Simon, to yourself—but, you have to, you need this. The same old justification ringing like the old ringtone you’ve memorized by heart. You reach down and carefully drop the spare phone onto the car floor, kicking it to hide it under the seat. Out of sight, out of mind – for now, at least.

Simon slid back behind the wheel after he was done, groaning as his neck popped tensely. He turned to you, brows furrowed.

“Alright?”

Giving a faux smile, you said: “Just a little tired.”

He didn’t question further, just nodded before turning the ignition and buckled his seatbelt. “Not far now,” he turned the wheel out of the gas station. “Just a bit further an’ we’ll be ‘ome.”

The car sped back down the long road. In the darkness outside, you barely made out the shadowy landscape rushing by outside the window, just your faint reflection staring back at you. Everything seemed almost lifeless, except for the soft strains of the radio playing a late-night playlist.

Home, he said. Simon said it as if “home” were so close and existent.

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